which he stated was ready for the press. (Shouts of hear, hear, from every side.) It was then resolved that No. 2 should make its appearance on the 2d (not the 1st) of April.

Secondly, That 200 copies should be ordered, that none of our friends, (as was the case with No. 1,) should be disappointed in consequence of a deficiency of copies.

The meeting then adjourned until April the 2d.

CHARLES DASHWOOD, Secretary.

HOPE.

How oft, in contemplation lost,

My gloomy fancy strays,

Whilst through my woes there gleams a hope

The hope of happier days.

Sweet Hope, to thee I'll wake my muse,

To thee an altar raise;

And dedicate some sacred spot,

Whereon to tell thy praise.

I'll choose for it some sunny bank,
Where violets sweetly grow;
The tulip shall its beauties lend,
And roses round it blow.

On cheering wing thou hov'rest round
In fortune's adverse day;

Nor dost, like many proffer'd friends,
In dangers fly away.

In thee the orphan finds a charm
That lulls each anxious fear;
The weeping widow looks to thee,
And dries each heart-felt tear.

Around our bark the waves may rage,
May rise to overwhelm ;

But where's the sailor would despair
Whilst thou direct'st his helm ?

When the poor wretch, condemn'd to death,
Hears his sad fun'ral sound,
Thou thither bidst him raise his eyes
Where only mercy's found.

To all oppress'd and needing help,
Thou dost thy hand extend;

In thee, and thee alone, we find

A firm, a lasting friend.

LATHAM.

"Scribimus indocti, doctique poemata passim."

DEAR EDITORS,

The "sweet nothing-to-do-ishness" of a wet day has just sent me round amusement-hunting; but I really have found every body, instead of laughing and talking, in brown studies and deep meditations; one would think the whole school were turned authors. However, I will give you a specimen. In my late perambulations round the room, I discovered Kenyon, with his hands behind him, standing before a roaring fire. As he had lately been unwell, and with the hope of drawing him into conversation, I began with the usual salutation,"How are you now, Kenyon?" I received no answer; and repeated my question." Very well, thank you; but don't interrupt me, I am busy," replied he, what ungraciously. "Hem-Composing," muttered I, as I sauntered to where Darlington was sitting, and threw myself into a chair by him. I was beginning with

some

a "Well, Darlington," when, quite unconscious of my presence, he burst out in a most author-like style,

"Blood upon blood shall flow,

And damsel's shrieks, and matron's woe,
Shall echo in thine ears."

"What

I hope not," said I, as I turned away with the deuce shall I do, Wentworth;" who, at this time, was close by. 'Go and hang yourself," retorted he,

You have driven away my best idea." This rebuff sent me to where Latham was sitting, with pens, ink, and foolscap paper, in abundance before him, and, notwithstanding my loud Halloo, Latham," he did not see me; for, with his head supported on his hand, he was buried in the deepest meditations: accordingly, I left him to his studies. Near him sat Kirby, who had just opened his Horace, and made me laugh, (for the first time to day,) with a bad pun. Beckoning me to come to him, he showed me this line,

"Hora

"Momento cita mors venit."

"But,

Death is coming in a minute to the Hora." read on," said George Seymour, who came up at that moment,

"Aut victoria læta."

I need not say how willingly I assented to this addition; and I was beginning to indulge a laugh at Kirby's expense, when Seymour stopped me with, "You lazy dog, you have not written an iota. Go! and compose. "I suppose I must, in my own defence," answered I, and sat down to write in a most determined manner. Just as I had, with immense labour, raised in my mind a most unintelligible heap of poetical ideas (out of which, I doubt not, something would have sprung, for

"Heaven and earth "Rose out of chaos,")

some half-witted Mercury brought me a vast bundle from Mytton, "To the Editors of the H. S." By the time I had safely deposited this in the letter box, I found the promising train of ideas vanished, and my head as barren as a bundle of brambles. I have, therefore, seated myself, out of pure spite and vexation, to bully you with a letter, as I really know no better punishment. In the name of goodness, Messieurs Editors, what are we poor beings to do? We must seriously turn authors in good earnest. However, I shall leave you at leisure to digest my abuse; and, taking my leave of you, beg you to believe me,

Dear Editors,

Your's truly,

C. DASHWOOD.

LINES WRITTEN IN A RUINED ABBEY.

How sweet amid these mould'ring wrecks
In pensive thought to stray,

When Phoebus sheds a ling'ring smile

O'er close of blushing day;

When soothing silence breathes around

Its stillness on the gale,
Delightful as the spicy breeze

In Araby's blest vale.

Mark hoary Time's consuming sway

O'er yon dark moss-grown aisle ;
Invidious power! who could not spare
Devotion's hallow'd pile.

Where peal'd the anthem's swelling note,

The lonely owlet sings;

Where rose the altar's sacred form,

The mantling ivy clings.

Here, wrapt in visionary dreams,
Delighted fancy reads
Of dark and distant ages past
The long-forgotten deeds.

Who rear'd the fane, unnotic'd lie

In monumental clay;

Those tongues, that sang their Maker's praise, Lie hush'd in cold decay.

G. S.

"When read, commit it to the flames."-A FRIEND.

Ah! must I then fulfil my trust,

And bid thy span, sweet note, be o'er?

Must thou be crumbled into dust,

And thy contents be read no more?

That shall not be-ere 'tis too late,
I will peruse thee once again!-
"Tis done-Alas! that envious fate

To death should doom so sweet a strain.

Keen were thy words-they reach'd my heartAnd yet that heart confess'd them dear; Compell'd from them so soon to part,

I scarce can check the starting tear.

But fare thee well! the strict command
I thus, reluctantly, obey;
How sad my heart, how shakes my hand,
There's none, save me, I'm sure can say.

Thou art committed to the flame:"
Yet still I linger at the spot;-
There is not left a trace-
-a name ;

But never will they be forgot.